


till dawn

by bapofficial



Category: B.A.P, K-pop
Genre: ? I suppose, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - War, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Bonding, Enemies to Friends, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Social Commentary, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-01-07 10:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bapofficial/pseuds/bapofficial
Summary: When war tears Yongguk away from their desperate grasps, Junhong and Himchan learn to hold onto the soil beneath their own home.





	1. little by little, slowly

**Author's Note:**

> other quick warnings/details: violence, ableism, family and financial issues, swearing, alcohol and smoking
> 
>  
> 
> Hi, Semi here! So this came to mind from a mixture of seeing Himlo being closer during Honeymoon era (!!!! bless), talking with [Lei](http://daehnii.tumblr.com) about Yongguk's hiatus from the group during Noir era and how that might have affected the members, reading essays about war and death and (de)colonisation for my Critical Theory module at uni, aaaand my own family stuff lolll. Hope you enjoy reading!!?
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://bapofficial.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/yeahbap)

Black smoke billows into each of the four corners of the television screen, throttling it from all sides. It completely chokes the display before brightening to show soldiers training outside, running with heavy weights bearing down on their already bent backs. A patriotic song plays in the background.

Numbers, names and meaningless figures flash across the bottom of screen: some injured here, some dead there. Something about money and sanctions, and international relations. There’s an interview with the family of a dead soldier, a throwaway comment about forty dead enemy civilians. It’s probably much more. Junhong refuses to care. There’s no point in caring. Frustration only makes things worse when there’s no outlet, no solution.

The camera now shows the anchorwoman in the news studio, sterile cleanliness a stark contrast to the dust and ash of distant lands. She lowers her gaze and declares a minute’s silence for today’s fallen, as if the hours of yesterdays and yesteryears were long enough for the blood-soaked flowerbeds to dry up. It’s all the same: fighting for what’s right, losing humanity along the way, then rushing out of a friend’s house with an embarrassed wave, hoping their mother won’t be too cross about the shattered plant pots, because a friend by the sandpit tomorrow would be nice. The spades are waiting to dig deep for someone else’s treasure, sneaked into pockets and boasted about in the back of the classroom. There’s always more earth to spill.

“I’m going out.”

Junhong’s eyes flit to where his brother, Himchan, stands by the door. “At this time?”

“Guys’ night out,” Himchan says indifferently. He kneels down to pull his shoes on. “Don’t leave the key inside the lock. I’ll be back late.”

“Who’s going?” Junhong asks Himchan’s back.

“Yongguk, Daehyun, maybe Youngjae if he can be arsed.”

Junhong sits up straighter on the battered sofa. “Can I come?”

Himchan brushes his hands off on his knees and brings himself up to his full height, frowning. “We don’t need a little kid jumping around at our feet. Just drink your milk and go to bed.”

“We don’t have any milk,” Junhong retorts, “or bread, or fruit. I wonder whose fault that is? And now you’re going to go off spending your loans on alcohol?”

Himchan leans against the doorframe to support his bad leg, a dark look on his face. “You didn’t have a problem with that a moment ago.”

“I didn’t have as much of a problem when it wasn’t just _you_ wasting everything.” Junhong is frightened by the danger in Himchan’s scowl, but he cocks an eyebrow in challenge all the same. “It can’t always be you throwing your life away. Give other people a go, too. There’s plenty of money to spend, after all.”

“Yes,” Himchan growls, “all of which is earned by me, so _I_ choose what to do with it. I don’t see _you_ doing anything to bring money in.”

Junhong flushes. “I’m sixteen.”

“Which is why you’re staying at home,” Himchan says with a stony tone of finality. He opens the front door and steps out. “And I started working at fifteen,” he adds. “What’s your excuse, Mr Grown-up?” He slams the door shut without waiting for an answer.

Swearing under his breath, Junhong gets up to lock the door: it’s not safe leaving it unlocked anymore, even during the day. He aims a furious kick at the edge of the sofa and instantly regrets it when tears of pain prick at his eyes. Himchan is such a pathetic excuse for an older brother — a pathetic excuse for a human, really. Junhong hasn’t been shown any brotherly care from Himchan for as far back as he can remember.

Things were easier back when their grandmother was alive. They could pretend they didn’t despise each other when there was a reason to, if only to keep her happy in her last days. Then she left as well, taking her warmth with her and leaving behind only a cold apartment in a rotting building; a paper-thin _house_ of cards, not a _home,_ where they tiptoe around each other with snide, hurtful remarks, but never enough to blow the foundations over, wary of the storms outside. It’s November now, but they still don’t enough money to turn the heating on, and being on the ground floor, they can’t benefit much from their neighbours either.

Junhong considers leaving the key in the lock out of spite — Himchan won’t be back before the morning anyway — but fear of Himchan’s drunken rage has him pull the key out and drop it on the kitchen table. On the television, the news programme is rerunning the same interview with the dead soldier’s family, talking about his bravery, his friendliness at school, how much he loved his _dog,_ for fuck’s sake. Junhong wonders if the enemy civilians even had families for a hypothetical interview. Names would be nice, or at least the correct number.

He switches it off; the screen flickers for a few second, before darkness seeps in from the corners towards the centre, as if the television is sucking the black smoke from bombs back in, where it’ll keep the poisonous fumes before coughing them out again tomorrow. With his blanket pulled over his head, Junhong falls into a fitful sleep.

  


 

* * *

 

 

 

As soon as the doorbell cuts through the silence of the apartment, Junhong bounds across the worn carpet and peers through the spyhole. Yongguk’s face is barely discernible behind the ridiculous woolen scarf he’s thrown on, but Junhong would recognise those tired, watery eyes anywhere: Yongguk’s eyes always get teary in the cold.

Junhong opens the door and is immediately greeted by a warm grin. “Hyung!” he cries, flinging his gangly arms around Yongguk’s armoured neck. “You’re early!”

“Mm, you’re warm,” Yongguk mumbles weakly into Junhong’s shoulder, before eventually letting go and stepping inside. “Yeah, figured we had so much content to get through today, we may as well start early. Then if we have time, we can do something fun after.”

Beaming, Junhong leads the way to the kitchen table, where he had already set his books out early in the morning. “Fine by me. Tea?”

Yongguk drapes his coat across the back of the chair he always occupies. “Fine by me,” he says with a soft smile.

Over the next three hours, Yongguk takes Junhong by the arm through victories and massacres and military blunders, dictators and puppets and illegal plunders. Junhong listens and reads aghast as Yongguk’s weary voice explains the horrors of modern warfare, and humanity’s tendency to transgress from its own meaning. With the image of napalm’s mark burned into his eyes, Junhong is glad they left the television for dead.

Yongguk’s promise of doing something fun afterwards turns out to be a nap on the sofa, with his head on Junhong’s lap and his skinny legs dangling off the other end. He had tried to gather the energy for them to go outside together, but his fatigued eyes had begged Junhong to convince him otherwise. Junhong looks down curiously, admiring the certainty of Yongguk’s sharp jaw and the war paint shadowing the skin under his eyes.

Himchan comes home after half an hour, stopping mid-yawn to shoot an annoyed glance at Junhong. Without changing out of his work clothes from the factory, he throws himself on the other sofa and falls asleep.

Carefully, Junhong lifts Yongguk’s head enough to be able to slip out from underneath him and stand up. He rolls up his hoodie and pushes it beneath Yongguk’s head to replace the warmth of his body, then steps back.

Himchan’s presence in the room dissipates the haze of lazy summer days, like a splash of cool water on Junhong’s face that trickles down his neck and leaves anxious wet patches on his t-shirt. Junhong decides it’d be best for him to retreat to the stronghold of his bedroom, and continue his studies behind the walls.

He creeps out later to find something in the cupboards to eat, but stops in the corridor when he hears hushed voices. Himchan, despite being exhausted, tries to carry the conversation to convince Yongguk that he’s fine. Perhaps Yongguk does the same by whispering back enthusiastically. They both snicker at something, and then there’s the sound of a hand slapping a thigh in glee.

Feeling lonelier than ever, Junhong slinks back to safety.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next weekend, Yongguk arrives at the usual time rather than early, and looking a little more well-rested this time. They’ve moved on to the consequences of war, though Junhong’s school syllabus doesn’t spare much space for the physical damage: the textbook devotes more paragraphs to the impacts on politics and the economy. Yongguk grinds his teeth in frustration and adds comments about dirty facts the textbook has chosen to leave out, because he doesn’t want Junhong to just devour the print and with his full belly, forget about the forced labour and starved sacrifices that went on behind it.

Yongguk is the one tutoring Junhong because he actually knows things and he encourages Junhong to go out into the world with a critical mind and a fighting chance, unlike Himchan who dropped out of school to earn money for cigarettes. It’s Yongguk who prompts him to speak his mind and who listens patiently when he does, treating Junhong like a friend of his own age, worthy of respect and attention. So when Yongguk ruffles his hair and watches him with pride, Junhong’s confession helplessly tumbles from his lips.

“I wish you were my brother.”

Junhong has always known it; he’s always yearned for Yongguk’s affection to brush pink onto his cheeks, otherwise left pale and gaunt by Himchan’s neglect. Jealousy often bites at him when Yongguk laughs at Himchan’s stupid jokes, though he’s not sure if it’s because _he_ wants to be the one to cause Yongguk’s amusement, or because he wants Himchan to like him enough to tell _him_ a joke.

Yongguk stares at him in surprise. “I am your brother,” he says slowly.

“My _real_ brother,” Junhong nervously insists. There’s no going back now. “I wish it was you instead of Himchan.”

Silence shrouds the apartment, engulfing the boys with an eerie sense of being surveilled. There are footsteps outside the main door; Junhong’s pulse rate quickens, but then they go past, echoing in the corridor outside. It’s nothing Himchan won’t have already thought of, but Junhong would still rather not face a Himchan who’d heard the words from his own mouth, barely muffled by the thin door.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Yongguk says with a disappointed look. He hesitates. “Himchan’s a good person. If you try a bit more to be nicer to him —”

“He’s not. He’s horrible and he doesn’t care about me.” Even though it’s true, Junhong has never told anyone else about this explicitly — never directed his misery at anyone other than Himchan and his own head — and guilt still seeps through Junhong’s skin, making him instinctively clench his fists. This isn’t how he imagined Yongguk would react: he was hoping for a bashful smile and a word of appreciation.

Yongguk sighs. “You both need to stop acting like this. You pretend you don’t care about each other but you _do,_ and it’s hurting both of you when you treat each other that way.” He puts a hand on Junhong’s shoulder. “Try? For me?”

Junhong’s face falls. “Hyung, you don’t understand.” He bites his lip, but Yongguk quietly waits for him to continue. “It’s not like I’ve never tried: he just doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“And you always argue with him,” Yongguk says sternly. “You insult him and fight back all the time.”

“What, am I supposed to just sit back and let him ruin both our lives?” To his horror, Junhong’s vision starts to blur. He hangs his head and blinks rapidly. Of course it’s his fault: no matter how awful Himchan is, and even though he’s older and should be more careful and brotherly, of _course_ it’s Junhong’s fault. He should learn to become even more of a doormat, and to keep his mouth shut when Himchan scrapes his bad decisions and lack of interest off on him.

“What do you mean?” Yongguk asks. “Your brother works so hard, Junhong. He does so much to make sure at least you can get a decent education. He’s out there almost every day of the week doing crazy shifts. It’s not his fault if it’s not enough.”

“It is his fault if he goes out and spends it all on crap like alcohol,” Junhong protests. He still can’t look up in fear that he’ll make a fool of himself in front of Yongguk by crying. He’s _sixteen_ for heaven’s sake; he needs to grow up.

Yongguk sighs. “You think he would have come out with us last week if I hadn’t insisted that I pay for him?”

 _What?_ Junhong scrunches his nose in confusion. “You paid? Then why didn’t he tell me?” Why would Himchan just let him complain about money if that wasn’t even the case? Well, that time anyway.

“What would you have said if he had?” Yongguk says. “Wouldn’t you have made him feel bad about depending on his friend instead?”

Junhong slowly raises his chin. “What about everything else? The cigarettes? Eating out when it’d be cheaper at home? The fact that the fridge is empty half the time?”

“He’s trying, Junhong.” Yongguk watches him sympathetically. It feels like pity. “Life hasn’t been kind to either of you, but he’s had it worse because he’s older and he’s responsible for you. I’m not excusing his bad habits, but at least try to understand where they’re coming from. He wants to unwind every now and then, and I wish he’d do it in a better way for the both of you, but at least he’s trying to cut it down. And he is spending on you, too. Why do think I’m here?”

Junhong’s eyes widen. Himchan _pays_ Yongguk, his own best friend, to tutor Junhong?

“I don’t charge him as much as I would for other people. He insisted on paying, but at least I got him to take a discount. But still, don’t think he’s neglecting you or anything, Junhong. See how much he cares about you doing well? He wants you to have a better future than him.”

Except Junhong can’t appreciate that when his face burns with embarrassment. How naive had he been to presume Yongguk took time out of his life to support his friend’s stupid little brother because he _wanted_ to? As a favour for his friend, or because — Junhong breaks eye contact — he actually liked spending time with Junhong? Not to say Yongguk doesn’t like him, but — Junhong feels the age difference once more, realises how he really _is_ a child trying to be noticed by adults with their own problems and priorities, pulling at the backs of their skirts like a petulant, demanding brat.

“I suppose,” Junhong manages to force out. “I shouldn’t have said anything, I’m sorry.” He knows he won’t be able to say much more more without his voice cracking.

In his peripheral vision, he gets a glimpse of Yongguk’s wide, toothy smile. “It’s ok, just be patient with him,” he says calmly. “Do small things to be nice to him, and he’ll notice. It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

Blankly, Junhong nods.

 

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time in a long while, Junhong empties two packets of noodles into the pan, sets out two sachets of soup powder, and places two bowls and two cups of water on the table. He had ignored the whines of his stomach for hours, not wanting to eat beforehand by himself.

It’s nerve-wracking being the one to bare himself with a white flag held high above his head, so vulnerable and easily soiled, especially because he’s younger, as Himchan often reminds him. But Yongguk’s revelation earlier that day was a slap in the face by a firm, calloused hand that wanted the best for him, so Junhong rubs away the handprint on his cheek with the heart patch newly stitched onto his sleeve, finally parted from the dark chest of medals and badges under the bed.

He had spent a long time wondering if he should start today. For years, Junhong and Himchan have been etched together into a pattern of disinterest, occasionally laced with irritation and resentment and the slightest hint of envy, and ironed into place by a refusal to be the first one to lay down arms and risk pain and humiliation. If Yongguk is right, though — if he knows his friend at all — maybe it’s worth a go. As long as Junhong doesn’t have to sacrifice his own feelings too much, he’s still willing to try to get a response from Himchan.

It’s almost eight but Himchan still hasn’t come. Junhong tries not to hope for too much; making the first step is draining enough and his bullet-ridden pride clings weakly onto his ankle with sweaty hands, but surely despite everything, Himchan will have to be pleased by Junhong’s effort. Surprised and suspicious, maybe, but at least the slightest bit softened towards him.

Lost in the steam from the pan, Junhong foolishly pictures a future where he can talk to Himchan like a friend, and Himchan isn’t embarrassed or disgusted by Junhong’s childishness. Yongguk joins the scene and tackles both of them into a rough embrace, his laughter echoing in the mist. The sides of Junhong’s mouth twitch upwards. It’s nice.

The front door rattles before being thrust open.

Junhong leans back and glances at Himchan as he comes in with a small stumble. The stench of tobacco reaches Junhong’s nose from the empty distance between them. Himchan frowns at him distractedly. His eyes are tinted red from the bite of the November wind.

“Why are you only just cooking now?” he asks coldly, voice raw and brittle.

Junhong gulps. “I waited for you.” His cheeks feel warm, and his insides tense.

Himchan glares at him before noticing the set table. “Well that was stupid of you. I already ate.”

Junhong’s stomach plummets.

“You better not waste that second packet. Finish it tomorrow.”

Hands trembling, Junhong stares at Himchan, whose apathy is only tainted by the curl of his lip. “I made it for you.” He inhales sharply. “You never said you were eating out.”

“I didn’t realise I had to tell you about my every move,” Himchan snarls. “What the hell is it to you?”

Junhong takes as deep a breath as he can muster. He tries again for Yongguk’s sake. “I don’t think you heard me. I made you dinner.”

A harsh, dog-like bark of laughter. “All this tutoring is getting to your head. I should talk to Yongguk, get him to come less often.” The threat in Himchan’s icy tone is clear. His eyes flash dangerously. “I’m not stupid. I can hear you. But it’s none of your fucking business what I do.”

It takes every last bit of self-restraint to keep Junhong from screaming at Himchan demanding what his problem is as he stalks off limping to his bedroom. Fuming, Junhong turns the stove off and slams the lid of the pan on with a piercing clang.

He uses his heart-stitched sleeve to wipe at his face again as he tears down the corridor to his own cramped bedroom. Sniffling under the bomb shelter of his blanket, Junhong pulls his legs in tightly against his empty stomach, cursing his own stupidity for being the first side to offer the pen for the peace negotiations, uncapped and sharp from disuse, ink long dried.

  
  



	2. the moonlight gets wet

Winter advances across the snow-capped mountains and frozen rivers, yet Himchan insists on the assault with even more ferocity, paying no heed to Junhong’s injured smile. They’re supposed to be on the same side, so why does Himchan treat him like an infiltrator who’d crawled through the hole under the fence from across the border?

It’s a miserable, dreary morning when Junhong turns into the wrong alley on the way to school. Ahead of him, a handful of his more popular classmates stand huddled together to keep the warmth from the smoke in. Before Junhong can even think of slipping back out of view, a couple of them notice him and call him over. Cautiously, Junhong steps forward.

He’s clapped on the back by a few of the guys, and one of the girls smiles at him. Junhong stares at her, dumbfounded, before returning the smile meekly and looking at the rest of the group in interest. They’ve never had a problem with him before, but they’ve never particularly noticed him much either, so Junhong is intrigued, if a little wary, when they offer him a cigarette and talk to him as if they’re friends.

He takes the cigarette uncomfortably, hoping the other boy doesn’t feel how clammy his hand is, nervous at the prospect of making a fool of himself in front of the others. Carefully, he turns it over between his fingers, but the sting of tobacco against his cold nose is all too familiar, and disgust at Himchan’s irresponsibility makes him lower his hand.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” he quietly says. His breathing quickens. “Thanks though,” he adds hastily.

To his surprise, the boy doesn’t seem to mind. He takes the cigarette back with a small shrug and sticks it into his own mouth, holding his other hand out for someone to pass him a lighter.

“Junhong,” the girl says slowly, as if only half-sure that’s the right name. “You’re tall, mature. Out of all of us, you’re the one who looks the most like an adult.”

Blushing, Junhong looks down and nods once. The compliment barely masks her ulterior motive, but blood still blooms onto his cheeks at the words. He shuffles and brings himself up to his full height, gleeful at being seen as grown up. It’s the respect and seniority he feels for _once_ that makes him go into the shabby, unfamiliar corner shop a few streets behind school and walk out again with full pockets, pulling the zip of his jacket higher to make sure his school uniform is still hidden.

In return for cigarette packets, he trudges back to the apartment after school with his pockets now weighed down with several coins for doing the dirty work. It’s a fair arrangement. He eyes the sweetshop display window at the bottom of his road, but decides against it. He’s never had much money to spend on himself, so he doesn’t know how to without regretting even the smallest purchase.

The apartment is quiet as usual. Junhong rummages through the kitchen cabinets and finally finds an old empty jam jar. He washes it out again for good measure and dries it before dropping the coins into it, and he closes the lid with the echoes still reverberating in his head. It’s good, it’s really good. Where it comes from doesn’t matter, as long as he uses it for something good. He hides the jar under his bed, stowed away behind his other precious belongings like food in the cellar of a war-torn land.

 

* * *

  

Yongguk smiles at him earnestly. “That’s right.”

Junhong returns it, though perhaps it’s a little more reserved than the way he would have smiled at Yongguk a fortnight ago. He hasn’t completely lost his eagerness to impress Yongguk, but he tries to at least be less pathetic about it.

Slowly, the gleam in Yongguk’s eyes fall away to reveal a grave, weary countenance. “You don’t look too happy. What happened with Himchan that time?”

Junhong bites his lip. He’d been trying not to think about it, avoiding Himchan as much as he could — surely Himchan must have heard him cry that evening, the _embarrassment_ of it all — which proved to be easy enough. Instead he’d thrown himself into studying, and waking up early so he’d have time to earn another few coins before class. “He was… angry at me. For no reason.”

“What?”

Sighing, Junhong lets Yongguk draw the poison from him and attempt to patch up a wound that has lost too much blood already. Yongguk tries to stitch up Junhong’s skin with meaningless words about Himchan not thinking properly, perhaps misdirecting his frustration from elsewhere onto Junhong, but they dissolve into nothingness.

“It’s fine, hyung,” Junhong mumbles. “I tried because you asked me to. I didn’t expect much anyway.” He pauses. “As in, I didn’t expect much of an improvement. If I knew it’d somehow make things _worse,_ I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Junhong,” Yongguk says, reaching out and laying a hand on the boy’s knee. “You tried. Trying will never be a bad thing, so I’m going to ask you to do it again. I don’t know what his problem is but I’ll talk to him about it, I promise.” His shoulders wilt in concern. “It’s not right that you both have each other in a relatively safe country, and yet don’t appreciate it.” He cocks his head in the direction of the television. “See all those miserable people? What they’d give to have a haven and a family, even just a drop of clean water?”

Despite the shame, irritation pricks at Junhong’s brows and draws them closer together. “Tell Himchan that. I’m not trying anything again unless you talk to him and he makes a right move first. Otherwise I’ll be making things worse again. Because it’s all my fault again, obviously, that he hates my guts for cooking for him. I should have known better.”

When Yongguk frowns at him, a wave of hot humiliation rushes through Junhong’s bloodstream. He just can’t keep his stupid, petty mouth shut for one second without showing the world how much of an immature child he is, can he?

“Junhong,” Yongguk begins cautiously, but Junhong knows he won’t be able to sit through another one of Yongguk’s serious talks without embarrassing himself further, so he gets up and strides to his room.

Unfortunately, Yongguk’s stubborn perseverance takes hold, and he follows Junhong in.

“Go away, hyung,” Junhong protests, sinking onto his bed and facing the wall to hide the redness at the tip of his nose.

Yongguk closes the door and joins Junhong on the bed. After a moment, he drapes an arm over Junhong’s shoulder and pulls his own chest forward against Junhong’s back. “You really care about him, don’t you?”

Junhong snorts, muscles tensed. “He’s a piece of shit. He doesn’t have a single good quality and he doesn’t like me. What’s there to care about?”

“He’s your brother.”

“So?”Junhong retorts. “That means nothing.”

“Then why are you crying?”

Mortified, Junhong pushes Yongguk’s arm away, but it returns, pulling on Junhong tighter and turning him around to face Yongguk. Junhong blinks rapidly but he can’t get rid of the wetness in his eyes.

“You do care,” Yongguk murmurs.

“Piss _off,_ hyung,” Junhong growls.

“Why are you pushing me away?” Yongguk asks, hurt. “I want to help, Junhong. I want you both to get on and be happy.”

Junhong’s resolve snaps. “By making me feel like shit and telling _me_ to do all the work, and letting him keep being the stupid excuse for an older brother he’s always been? You joke around with him and let go and talk about normal stuff, but when it comes to me it’s all serious: ‘Junhong do this, Junhong you should know better, Junhong turn the other cheek and try again’. It’s not like I have my own pride and dignity, right? I’m just a stupid little kid who’s content with being used like a dirty rag. I don’t matter.”

Yongguk adamantly shakes his head. “How can you say that, Junhong? I’m always careful with how I speak to you. You know I always want the best for you.”

“Why can’t you talk to _him?_ Why can’t you tell _him_ to be a decent person for once? I know you actually like him, but then shouldn’t you be more brutally honest with him?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Yongguk says incredulously. “That I don’t actually like you?”

Junhong shrugs, lips petulantly pressed together and gaze lowered. To his horror, a tear rolls down his cheek.

“Junhong?” Yongguk questions.

When Junhong refuses to acknowledge him, Yongguk pulls him into a hug. Junhong doesn’t try to resist, and instead hides his face between the folds of Yongguk’s loose-fitting shirt, but keeps his hands determinedly at his sides.

“Junhong,” Yongguk repeats softly, apparently at a loss for words. He rubs the back of Junhong’s neck. “If I ever…  made you feel like that I… I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” He heaves out a sigh. “You know I love you.”

Junhong weakly sniffles into Yongguk’s chest, but says nothing.

“Of course I do, you’re my only younger brother. That doesn’t mean I see you as a little kid. It just means I want to guide you, look out for you, even if sometimes you don’t see it like that. I’d never mean to make you upset.” His usually confident voice sounds so uncertain, so helpless. “You believe me, right?”

After a pregnant pause, Junhong nods.

“I just want you to be happy. I might not always be around so I want you to be comfortable at home.”

Junhong freezes. “Are you — going somewhere?” he croaks, voice muffled by the fabric.

“I… don’t know,” Yongguk replies quietly. He hesitates. “You know they’ve started drafting people to join the army? They want more soldiers.”

Immediately, Junhong straightens up and stares at Yongguk, aghast. “But you’re a university student. They can’t make you go, right?”

Yongguk shrugs. “I don’t know. They haven’t announced everything yet, but I should be ready for the worst.” He smiles at Junhong sadly. “You think the government cares about that?”

Junhong shakes his head. “That can’t be right. You’re paying them a tonne of money already, they can’t make you drop everything and go fight for — for nothing.”

“I’m glad you see it for what it is.”

When Yongguk leans in for another hug, Junhong nervously lifts his arms and presses them against Yongguk’s back.

“There’s loads of people in the country, though,” Junhong whimpers. “Who says they’re going to pick you?”

Yongguk lets out a slow exhale. "Who says, indeed.”

 

* * *

  

As November wanes, Junhong crushes his pride and urge to defend himself beneath the weight of the money jar under his bed; it grows heavier along with his guilt each time he leaves the corner shop with death in his pockets.

He tries again, but with smaller and quieter steps. When Himchan collapses on the sofa again after a back-breaking shift at the factory, Junhong lays an old blanket over him. He sometimes leaves a glass of water on the table as he leaves for school, and he scrubs the bathroom clean after he hears retching sounds one night.

Himchan doesn’t snap at him this time, instead falling into silent confusion and a facade of indifference. He’s always been slightly vulnerable with his limp and his sickly nature, but his skin is pale and the shadows under his eyes only grow darker as the nights become longer. Junhong wonders if Himchan is simply too exhausted to confront him, or if Yongguk has actually spoken to him as he promised.

Junhong doesn’t want to try his luck too much, though; he still stays out of Himchan’s way most of the time, locking himself up in his bedroom and immersing himself in his schoolwork. He decides that if he doesn’t put too much effort in, doesn’t leave his heart too far out on the battlefield, he has less to lose if he steps on a mine and is wrenched back to the medical tent as a hopeless case.

Yongguk stops asking him about Himchan. Maybe Himchan has been telling Yongguk about how uncomfortable Junhong’s actions are making him, or just told Yongguk to stop encouraging Junhong any further. Whatever the reason, Junhong is relieved; they don’t bring up the topic of drafting again either, even though Junhong has been making sure to check the news every morning and evening. Students, it seems, are not exempt.

“Are there any teabags?”

Wide-eyed, Junhong looks up from his textbook. Himchan is sitting at the table, clearly debating on whether it’s worth getting up to check and risking further aches and pains. His voice has become even raspier lately, having lost its rich quality.

“There should be, yeah,” Junhong replies.

Himchan sighs and makes to stand up.

“I’ll do it!” Junhong blurts, putting the book down and rushing to the counter. He blushes as he spots Himchan frowning at his sudden reaction, but tries to ignore it as he puts the kettle on. Is he being too much? He hopes Himchan won’t get cross again. “Sugar?”

“Uh, yeah,” Himchan grunts after a moment.

Himchan’s eyes on the back of his head trigger a tremble in Junhong’s hands, but he persists as nonchalantly as he can. He quickly wipes away the spilled water on the countertop. There is no sugar.

Junhong searches the cabinets again. “Is honey ok?”

He timidly twists his head to look back. Himchan seems more sullen than he was a moment ago, lips pursed and eyes downcast. Did Junhong say something wrong?

“Or without, if you don’t want honey?” he asks hastily. “Honey would be good for you though. For your throat.”

“Honey’s fine,” Himchan says abruptly, sinking down into the chair and spreading his legs wider. He sighs.

Anxiously, Junhong mixes in a spoonful of honey and carries the mug over to the table, both hands wrapped securely around it despite the burn against his palms: he can’t afford to make anymore mistakes. A few drops of lemon would have been nice, but there isn’t any of that in the apartment either.

Himchan takes the tea with a gruff murmur of thanks. Deciding not to push his chances too much for one day, Junhong grabs his textbook and moves to his bedroom. The atmosphere was getting a little too tense, like the still, hot air on the eve of battle. The relative peace before unjustified intervention, the calm before the drone strikes. Junhong wants harmony, but he refuses to suffocate himself for it.

 

* * *

   

“Why do you leave so early these days?”

Junhong fumbles with his shoelaces. “I like having the classroom to myself. And if the teacher’s there, I can ask her questions.”

Himchan sets his coffee down on the table. “What’s got into you? You’re studying nonstop.”

Slowly, Junhong stands back up. Himchan’s unwavering gaze is unnerving, and Junhong is worried he knows something. “My history exam is in a few weeks,” he replies softly, “just before the winter holiday. I want to do well.”

“So you get full marks, and then what?” Himchan scoffs. “You gonna be history teacher? A historian? Do a war documentary on TV and get rich?”

“What?” Junhong says as calmly as he can. What’s Himchan’s problem _now?_ “I just… want to do well in school, in general. Yongguk hyung wants me to as well. So do you, I hope, seeing as you get him to tutor me.”

Himchan flinches at Yongguk’s name.

“And we don’t know how long he’ll still be here, so I should do my best to not let his efforts go to waste, don’t you think?”

“What did he tell you?” Himchan shoots back, demeanour becoming grave.

Junhong looks at him in surprise. “Nothing, just that they were going to… start drafting more soldiers, soon.”

Himchan nods once, and his shoulders seem to relax, though his eyes are still narrowed. “Alright.” He lifts his mug of coffee to his lips again and takes a long gulp.

Hand uncertainly hovering on the doorknob, Junhong shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Himchan doesn’t pay him any more attention, though. “Bye, hyung,” he says quietly.

Himchan’s eyebrows arch, but he only nods again to acknowledge Junhong’s words.

The corner shop is busier than usual, so the shopkeeper doesn’t even have time to eye Junhong reproachfully like he normally does before handing the cigarettes over to him anyway. Money is money, no matter which shadowy briefcase it comes from, stowed away from the government’s watchful eye in uncharted territories. Junhong waits until he is out on the street to shove the packets into his pocket, feigned confidence his armour against suspicious glances.

The sky is almost dark again when he gets back to the apartment. He toes his shoes off clumsily and rubs his hands together to thaw the numbness. To his surprise, Himchan is sprawled out on the sofa in his dusty work clothes, legs spread wide and arms draped across the seats next to him.

Himchan wordlessly stares at Junhong.

“Hi hyung,” Junhong says after a moment of hesitation.

Still, Himchan persists with his gaze. “Pass us a cigarette.”

“What?”

“Pass me one.”

Junhong frowns. Himchan always at least smokes and drinks outside, away from Junhong. “Where do you keep them?”

“Where do _you_ keep them?”

Junhong starts.

“You thought I wouldn’t find out?” Himchan says slowly.

_Shit._

“That I wouldn’t get suspicious when your jacket stinks of smoke?”

“I don’t smoke,” Junhong blurts. “It’s not —”

“Don’t lie to me,” Himchan hisses, dangerously teetering over the edge of an outburst. “You _dare_ to criticise me when you go and do the same things behind my back too? Studying, my ass.” His eyes flash maliciously. “You won’t mind me smoking in here from now on, then. Do you drink, too? Let me catch you and I can do that here as well. Go on, your turn to throw your life away. _There’s_ _plenty of money to spend, after all,_ right?”

Heart hammering, Junhong backs away. “You don’t understand,” he breathes, “it wasn’t for me. I’ve never smoked in my life, I swear.”

“Piss off,” Himchan snaps. “I’m not Yongguk. Whining and lying isn’t going to work on me.” His eyes narrow; he seems to have understood something. “Is this why you’ve been sucking up to me like a little bitch? Because you were scared of me getting angry when I found out?” He laughs abruptly. “Pathetic.”

Junhong’s eyes well with tears at the injustice. He wants to fight back, show Himchan he’s telling the truth and make _him_ feel bad for once, but he can’t. His voice has long surrendered, too cowardly to stand up and protect him. Junhong feels Himchan’s gaze on him as he flees, darting across the room to the dark corridor behind.

  

* * *

  

“It stinks in here, Himchan, what the hell?”

“Don’t ask,” comes the exasperated reply.

Silently, Junhong rolls over, shivering under his blanket. It’s been hours, but he hasn’t had the courage to go near the living room or make dinner. Burying the pleas from his stomach beneath what’s left of his pride, he tilts his chin higher and listens as the front door closes and Yongguk comes inside.

“You’re not being fair to him. At least do your stuff outside, not in the house.”

Himchan scoffs. “I caught him buying cigarettes today, Yongguk.”

There’s silence. Junhong bites the insides of his mouth.

“Are you… are you sure?”

The disbelief hurts more than the disappointment Junhong knows will follow. He’s almost glad when the neighbours next door start shouting, drowning out the conversation from the living room. Would Yongguk believe him if he tries to explain himself after Himchan has painted him as a hypocrite first?

Helplessly, Junhong closes his eyes, falling into a feverish sleep that he wakes from frequently, only to sink back beneath consciousness. At some point, he thinks hears Himchan ask Yongguk where he went so _wrong_ , but Junhong’s not sure if he’s fully awake. There comes Yongguk’s comforting tone: _maybe Junhong’s doing it for attention_ . It’s not all Himchan’s fault, _of course it isn’t_.

Himchan has to learn to believe in himself; Yongguk is going to leave. It goes silent again.

Junhong wakes the next day with a dull ache in his stomach. His head spins as he gets ready for school, but he carries on hurriedly cramming his things in his bag. As he strides out into the living room, he sees Himchan and Yongguk fast asleep and slumped against each other on the same sofa, with crumbs and beer cans littering the carpet. Junhong must have heard that part right last night, about the draft; nothing else would have convinced Yongguk to bring alcohol to the apartment. _He’s leaving._

It’s not as miserable as Junhong thought it would be. Perhaps he knew, somehow, that this would happen. That Yongguk wasn’t permanent like Himchan, no matter how tightly Junhong tried to hold on. He feels numb as he peers into the plastic snack bowls on the floor, only to find them empty. He’ll buy some breakfast with his last cigarette purchase — Himchan will be preoccupied today, after all — and tell the other kids he can’t do it anymore. He’ll be fine. He puts on his shoes and coat and leaves the apartment before the two can wake up. The icy air wraps its fingers around his throat, so he pulls up the collar of his coat and strides on. He’ll be fine.

Nobody is there when he gets back, and though the living room is still messy, at least the cans are gone. He sets his bag down with a sigh and throws together a meagre early dinner for himself out of leftovers. He’s in the middle of cleaning the room when the front door opens and Himchan barges in noisily.

“Yongguk’s going,” he says abruptly. “I’m dropping him off to the station. He wanted to say bye.”

Junhong continues to brush the sofa clean.

Himchan swears under his breath and lowers his voice. “He’s just sorting his bags out outside. Don’t mess this up for him. You don’t know when you’re gonna see him again so don’t be a dumbass about it. Say bye properly so he at least doesn’t have to worry about _you_ on top of everything else. He doesn’t deserve your crap.”

Junhong only looks up when he hears another voice outside. Yongguk looks at him without smiling, and his tiredness is more evident than ever.

“You heard?” Yongguk asks in a terrible attempt at lightness. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I didn’t want you worrying. You’re not angry at me, right?”

Face hot, Junhong shakes his head once and keeps his head lowered. Even after everything, Yongguk is pretending to ignore Junhong’s mistake to not embarrass him any further, and trying to protect him. Junhong doesn’t know what to say. His throat constricts.

“Come here.”

Junhong shuffles forward and lets Yongguk hug him, laying a tentative hand on Yongguk’s back himself. It’s strange: tutoring sessions with Yongguk never seemed long enough for all the things Junhong was bursting to tell him, and yet now his jaw won’t move from where it’s locked itself and ground the key. The high mark he got in his practice test yesterday seems so trivial now, compared to what Yongguk is about to do. How will anything Junhong’s immature mouth utters deserve to capture Yongguk’s interest? Junhong gulps.

“Write to me, yeah? Tell me how your exam goes,” Yongguk murmurs into his ear. “I’ll try to be back soon.” He laughs hollowly. “Don’t graduate from school without me.”

All Junhong can manage is a breathless grunt. Himchan is watching them with distaste, so Junhong drops his hand, and they part.

Yongguk sighs heavily and feigns a smile. “Well, goodbye.” He steps back and follows Himchan to the door, but hesitates at the doorway.

Despite trying his hardest to just return the farewell, Junhong stares at his feet dumbly so he doesn’t have to see Yongguk’s last look of disappointment. After a moment of silence, the door closes.


	3. chasing out the long darkness in the night

The apartment is cold. The fresh, untouched snow of newly rekindled silence covers the corridor between Junhong and Himchan’s rooms.

Himchan hasn’t been around much; Junhong has only seen him a few times in the two weeks since Yongguk left. He still hears Himchan’s hacking cough in the dead of the night sometimes, but he doesn’t offer him tea again. He avoids Himchan’s room when he cleans the apartment in the fear of Himchan coming from work early and finding a reason to be furious at him. It’s lonely.

Despite everything, jealousy nips at Junhong as he pulls his hat lower over his ears on his way to school. Himchan at least got to say goodbye properly. He knows what Yongguk thinks of him: Himchan _knows_ that they’re friends, and that Yongguk respects and cares for him. No matter how many times Junhong tries to recall their parting, he can’t decipher how disappointed Yongguk was in him. If the way Himchan told him about the cigarettes wasn’t enough, then Junhong’s muteness during his farewell must have been: after all the effort Yongguk put in to make something bright of Junhong’s future, all Junhong did was blow it out in his face and let the smoke shroud it.

The exam goes well enough, if a little anticlimatic: weeks of preparation for an hour and a half of sitting at a desk in silence. Junhong knows he should feel relieved that it’s over, but he can’t help flicking through his revision notes afterwards, glancing at the neat black additions to his blue scrawls. It’s like his last bond with Yongguk has been broken now. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever see him again, and even if he does, what then? He ruined it.

That evening, Junhong watches television for the first time since Yongguk went. He was scared of hearing Yongguk’s name in the announcement of the dead, but he’s realised that not knowing what’s going on at all is worse. He can’t pretend he doesn’t care.

The anchorwoman smiles faintly before continuing. More and more soldiers are being drafted. In an emotional clip appealing to citizens’ patriotism, the army says it needs new men to volunteer and sign up to protect the country, or else it’ll be infiltrated by the enemy. Junhong wants to roll his eyes at the drama of it all, and clearly he’s not the only unconvinced one in the country, if the army has resorted to drafting. The only protecting going on is of interests, and human lives is not one of them.

He wonders if Himchan will ever be called up. He’s twenty-two, the same age as Yongguk, and not at university — not that that helped anyone — but perhaps being the only adult legally responsible for Junhong will help Himchan avoid it. Then there’s his leg, too. It had happened when Himchan was fifteen and had first started working at the factory. He’s never said much about it, but Junhong put the pieces together over the years. They had taken advantage of his young age, and careless neglect sent something heavy toppling onto him. He’s had pain and a slight limp ever since.

There’s a shuffling of shoes outside. Junhong looks away from the screen. The locks clicks, and the front door squeaks open. Breathing heavily, Himchan strides into the apartment and throws his bag on the ground by the other sofa.

Junhong gets up. He shouldn’t have stayed here so long. Himchan has already seen him, but it’ll only make things worse if Junhong lets that stop him. He switches the television off and scampers back to his bedroom while Himchan locks the front door again.

It’s not even nine yet, but Junhong doesn’t bother switching the light on. He sits on his bed and glares at the vague outline of his chair. A sudden loathing for Himchan churns inside him: why did he have to assume the worst without listening to Junhong? It was all a misunderstanding, but he still refused to believe him. And then telling Yongguk? Tainting Yongguk’s last memory of Junhong with a lie? Himchan had no right to do that.

But Junhong could still have defended himself. Not to Himchan, maybe, but to Yongguk. Yongguk deserved an explanation at least, didn’t he? Junhong could have made things right, but his silence must have sounded like the admission of his guilt. Now Yongguk remembers him as the boy who he tried to help, but ultimately, the kid who messed up. If Yongguk even wants to think about him at all, that is.

Junhong clenches his jaw in frustration.

 

* * *

  

Himchan has the next day off. Junhong wakes up late and makes sure to wait a good fifteen minutes for Himchan to go back into his room after his breakfast before Junhong leaves for the kitchen. The fridge has recently been restocked, but it’s still not even half-full. Junhong figures it won’t even make much of a difference if Himchan does get called up for the army somehow. There’s an empty cigarette box on the table and the residue stench of tobacco. Junhong wrinkles his nose in displeasure and tosses it in the bin.

“Surprised you didn’t check for any inside,” a voice drily comments.

Startled, Junhong spins around. Himchan watches him from the doorway, pyjamas hanging loosely off his bony body. The sneer on his gaunt face is unsettling. There’s an envelope in his hand, which he drops onto the dusty desk behind him.

“Why would I?” Junhong responds, though his tone is weaker than he’d hoped for. “I told you I’ve never smoked.”

Himchan scoffs. “Drop it. There’s no point in keeping up the act. There’s nobody around to impress anymore.”

“Exactly. Why would I keep at it if it wasn’t the truth?”

With a sigh of exasperation, Himchan ambles towards the sink and fills himself a glass of water. “Yongguk was right. You _are_ a stupid little attention-seeker.”

Junhong stares at him, hurt. “He didn’t say it like that.”

“And now you’ve started eavesdropping?” says Himchan incredulously. He takes a gulp of his water before setting the glass down on the counter. “Fucking brat.”

Junhong slams the fridge door shut. “What’s your problem?” he retorts, before he can try to calm himself down.

 _“My_ problem?” Himchan asks, laughing derisively. “Yongguk’s gone and I’m left with _you_ until you turn eighteen and get the hell out of here! Two years of dealing with your dumb shit and your stupid mouth. But what’s _my_ problem?”

The hypocrisy is what tips Junhong over the edge. “Oh, and I’m happy about that, am I? Living with someone like you? Another two years of you making this place like hell, without Yongguk to keep you in check?” 

“Well tough luck for you, because he’s gone,” Himchan snarls. “He knows what a lying piece of crap you are, and he doesn’t want you anymore. You can’t take everything from me.”

Junhong’s lower lip trembles. He doesn’t understand where Himchan’s sudden spite came from. Was the envelope more bills? “When the hell have I ever taken anything from you? You have nothing to give.”

“You think I _wanted_ to be landed with you?” Himchan counters scathingly. “You think I wanted to drop out of school and go work when I was still a kid? Because I had some dumbass child I was meant to look out for? _Brother,_ my ass.”

“And yet you’re still there?” Junhong says. “It’s been years and you’re still at the same place you got your leg crushed, slaving away and wasting half of your wage on crap. How’s that my fault?”

Himchan’s eyes flash. “I’ve got an extra, ungrateful mouth to feed that I’d be much better off without.”

Junhong takes a step back. “It’s your own fault that you’re messing your own life up. It should have been _you_ called up, not Yongguk. He was doing something useful here. But even the army knows how useless you are.” He exhales heavily. “Yongguk’s ten times the brother you’ll ever be.”

Himchan falls eerily silent. “You already said that.”

“What?”

“When he was tutoring you,” Himchan says slowly. “You said you wished _he_ was your real brother, not me.”

Himchan’s dangerously calm voice scares Junhong more than his shouts. Junhong looks at him nervously. “He told you that?”

“No,” Himchan continues, “heard it with my own ears. I was just outside the door. I’d finished early that day.”

Junhong frowns, feeling oddly guilty. “Can you blame me?”

“So you sucked up to him that much but you couldn’t even say a proper goodbye to him?” Himchan replies with a scowl. “After everything he did for you, even though he didn’t owe you a bloody thing, and you couldn’t stop yourself from making it about _you_ again?”

“I tried!” Junhong cries. “You’re the one who didn’t listen to me and made him think I was doing bad stuff behind your backs. How was I supposed to act? I tried.”

“You didn’t try hard enough,” Himchan rebukes. “You should have apologised, or at least just fucking said _something._ You let him down, and now that disappointment is gonna make him feel like a failure, because of you. As if being forced to fight for everything he disagrees with isn’t bad enough, now he’s miserable because of your shit, too.”

Tears prick at Junhong’s eyes. “It’s not my fault,” he says weakly. “I tried.”

“You make me sick,” Himchan spits. _“You_ tried? What about how much _he_ tried? When he didn’t need to? You didn’t deserve a single second of his time.”

Junhong wipes at his face. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He hates this. He hates that Himchan is always one step ahead of him, that he always reduces him to tears and apologies while he himself remains unaffected.

“It’s too late now,” Himchan says. “He can’t hear you.”

Lowering his head, Junhong wipes at the tears streaming down his face again.

Himchan huffs impatiently. “Stop crying all the time.”

Junhong says nothing, fearing his voice will crack.

“He wanted the best for you, but you don’t deserve that.” The distaste in his voice is clear.

“I don’t want that,” Junhong mumbles.

“What?”

The embarrassment is extraordinary. Junhong clears his throat but he still won’t look up. “I didn’t want the best. I just wanted a brother.”

He sniffs and leaves the kitchen, blindly making his way back to his bedroom. To his relief, Himchan doesn’t call him back.

 

* * *

 

Junhong keeps out of Himchan’s way even more determinedly after that. School breaks up for the winter holidays, leaving Junhong to confine himself to his room for hours on end. He slips out of the apartment once or twice to see a friend or get some air, but it’s even lonelier than before.

He shouldn’t have argued back with Himchan. Yongguk isn’t here to tell him that anymore, but his disapproving voice still echoes in Junhong’s head. It wasn’t worth it, it never is. If he’d just kept quiet and let Himchan drop another snide remark or two unchallenged, he would have shut up and left Junhong alone. The number of times in the last month that Junhong has retreated to his bedroom in tears is embarrassing. So were some of the things he said to Himchan, but Junhong can’t really go and take it back now.

He’s doing some holiday homework at his desk when there’s a sharp rap at his door. Surprised, Junhong looks up. The door creaks open and reveals Himchan in the same pyjamas. It’s only eight in the evening.

Himchan holds up a piece of paper. “Yongguk sent a letter a few days ago. There’s a part of it to you.”

Immediately, Junhong pushes his chair back and springs to his feet. He takes the letter from Himchan. “Thanks.”

“Write a reply if you want,” Himchan says without looking at him. “I’ll put it an envelope with mine and send it off.”

Junhong stares at him. “Thank… you.”

“Don’t write anything dumb,” Himchan adds shortly, before leaving and closing the door behind him.

With fumbling hands, Junhong unfolds the letter and reads:

 

_so I usually keep quiet and don’t say anything too radical, haha. You know I’d never! I’m not that kind of person. I love protecting our country as much as anyone would. Most of the people I do my drills with are volunteers, so as you can imagine, they’re wonderful — just my kind of crowd. I do like a nice bit of strenuous physical exercise to prepare me for crushing terrorists and their extended families like bugs. I can’t wait to go do the real thing. I fly out in three weeks._

_Sorry, I think being away from you guys and my family is making me say funny things. What I mean to say is I miss lounging in your living room and complaining about your terrible sofas. You really should put some more stuffing in them, they’re way too stiff and hard. It’s not fun. For Junhong too, he’s still a growing boy, he should be more comfortable at home. It better be nice by the time I come back. Give me a real homecoming. Something warm. You know I love you. I’ll always want the best for all of us._

_Your best friend,_

_Yongguk_

 

_Dear Junhong,_

_How’s my man doing? Doing the country proud with your brains? If they’re not proud of you, it’s because they’re jealous, haha. How was your exam? What were the questions? Please distract me! It’s a little repetitive doing drills all day, and they made me throw away my book when I got here because they said it was of poor taste. I can only read good books that they offer us, but I don’t think I’m clever enough to understand them, so I don’t have anything to read anymore._

_Things weren’t the best when I left, but I hope you know I’ll always love you and be proud of how far you’ve come. I know you’ll only go further. Your brother said you still deny it, so I think there’s some truth to it. And even if there isn’t, it shows that if you did do it, you know it’s not right. So both options look good to me. Don’t beat yourself up about it. There are way worse things out there that humans can do, as I’ve seen in this short eye-opening time._

_I look forward to hearing good things!_

_Your second brother,_

_Yongguk_

 

Junhong grins unabashedly: he’s forgiven. He turns the paper over, but there’s nothing; the previous page, or pages, must still be with Himchan. But Yongguk made sure to include the part about Junhong on the page of the letter to Himchan that Junhong himself would see.

He rereads the whole thing, smiling at Yongguk’s persistent sarcasm and hidden messages. After pushing his books to the side of the desk, he sits down and tears a fresh piece of paper out of his notepad to begin writing a reply. In keeping with Himchan’s words, he doesn’t dwell on the cigarette incident, only alluding to it briefly, making sure Yongguk can see his relief and gratitude.

It takes an hour before Junhong is pleased with his reply. He gets up and opens the door. Himchan is slumped back on the sofa, tiredly keeping an eye on the television.

“I did it,” Junhong says.

Himchan looks at him. “That was quick.”

Junhong doesn’t know what to say to that, so he hands over Yongguk’s letter and his reply, both folded separately. Himchan takes them quietly and puts them on the edge of the table. He hesitates, clearly about to say something, so Junhong waits with bated breath. He knows it’s safer to just go back to his room — it’s only been a few days since their big argument — but a small part of him, rekindled by Yongguk’s words, dares to hope for something. Maybe Himchan’s been touched by the letter too.

“He’s going out into the field next week,” Himchan begins.

What? “Didn’t he say in three weeks?” Junhong asks.

“It took some time for the letter to get here.” Himchan grimaces. “And I’ve had it for a while.”

Junhong doesn’t complain about it. He won’t start an argument for something that small. He already knows Yongguk wrote a much longer letter to Himchan than to him.

Himchan pauses again. “Thirteen of our soldiers died today.”

“Ok,” Junhong says. He’s not sure how else to respond. Is Himchan trying to start a new conversation?

It goes quiet again. Himchan licks his lips, but Junhong takes his leave. He won’t linger and watch things go downhill again.

 

* * *

 

The heating breaks down on the evening of the winter solstice. It’s funny, Junhong thinks, that the last warmth of the apartment leaves with the last warmth of the year. They hadn’t been using it much, only for twenty minutes in the mornings and an hour at night before bed, but the air outside only gets colder each passing day, more persistent to rattle the wooden window panes and crawl under doors like poisonous gas.

He warms his hands over the pot. He’s been experimenting with soups recently, throwing what he can find in the cupboards in and drowning it all with water and spice. Himchan hasn’t been shopping since that last time, nor has he asked Junhong to. The milk finished a while ago, and so did the bread. It’s mostly tinned food that Junhong digs out these days. He can’t even rely on his friends for snacks now that school is out. His gaze often lingers on the space beneath his bed, but he always leaves the jar where it is.

The front door opens.

An uncomfortable sense of déjà vu settles in the space between the faded welcome carpet and the cooker: between the frontier and the rundown barracks. The door closes again and the lock clicks. Junhong concentrates on stirring the soup to ignore the heavy breathing as Himchan takes his shoes off and puts his bag down. A cough behind him startles him.

“Is there enough for me?”

Junhong nods hurriedly. He’d made enough to last himself for a few days. “It’s almost done.”

Himchan hums in response. Junhong hears him pulling out a chair and sinking into it. He could at least help set the table, Junhong thinks, before casting the thought aside. Himchan must be tired after working all day. His cough seems to be getting worse, too.

After one last taste, Junhong turns the stove off and carries the pot to the table, placing a dishcloth underneath it. He watches as Himchan takes his first spoonful, and relaxes slightly when no complaints come his way. It’s not the best thing he’s ever cooked, but he made the most of what he had. Himchan looks adamantly down at his bowl, so Junhong does the same. It’s an uncomfortable silence, and Junhong becomes acutely aware of how loud Himchan is: his breathing, his eating, even his presence demands space and attention.

“Are you not going to ask how my day went?” Himchan says gruffly.

Junhong looks at him in surprise. Since when has Himchan cared about small talk? “How was… your day?” he asks carefully.

Himchan doesn’t seem satisfied, but he lets it slide. “One of the guys at work — Jongup — said he has a spare heater. A portable one. He can lend it until we get the heating sorted.”

“That’s nice of him,” Junhong replies. “That’s really nice.”

Himchan nods slowly. He lapses into silence again before speaking. “You should get another tutor.”

“Why?” asks Junhong suddenly.

“Yongguk can’t tutor you right now, can he?” Himchan says. There’s a touch of irritation in his tone. “We should get you another one for your summer exams.”

“I don’t need a tutor,” Junhong protests. “I’m doing alright. I’m working hard, I’ll be fine.”

“You said that before Yongguk helped you out, and clearly he still made a difference.”

“I’ll be fine,” Junhong repeats.  “There are more important things to spend money on. We can’t afford it.”

“I don’t need you telling me what I can and can’t afford,” Himchan snaps.

Junhong clamps his mouth shut. How does he always manage to rile Himchan up?

Himchan clenches his jaw. “Yongguk said you should get one,” he admits after a moment.

“Yongguk wouldn’t say that if he could see us,” Junhong says quietly. He braces himself for Himchan’s outburst, but it doesn’t come. “Really, I’m doing much better now. I’ve learnt how to focus properly. I’m better at revising. I’m fine.”

Avoiding eye contact, Himchan sighs in acceptance. He aimlessly stirs his soup for a while before speaking again. “Another twenty soldiers died today.”

What is Himchan doing, trying to drag out a conversation so determinedly? It’s new, and Junhong doesn’t understand how to act. “How many civilians?” he questions. “Sorry — terrorists.”

“What does it matter?” Himchan counters testily. “It’s not like they’re innocent. They’re fighting as well. How else would our soldiers be dying?”

“Well, yeah,” Junhong says. “Fighting back. Anyone would if someone came and tried to do an armed robbery of their house in broad daylight. When all the neighbours were watching silently.”

Himchan regards him suspiciously. “You sound like Yongguk,” he accuses.

“Is that a bad thing?” Junhong asks warily. He had to say it, but he doesn’t want this to escalate.

Himchan scowls. “There’s nothing good about this. I’m telling you to be ready for the worst. None of this is right, but there’s no time to worry about anyone else.”

“Isn’t that the problem in the first place?” Junhong says. “That we don’t care for other people.”

“This is about Yongguk,” Himchan persists. “You don’t know if he’ll be able to come back or not. And even if he does, he won’t be the same person he was before he left. And you can’t blame him for that either. War is going to break him.”

He’s right, Junhong knows that, but he doesn’t want to think about that now. “You sound like Yongguk,” he says cautiously.

To his relief, Himchan doesn’t take it badly. He puts his spoon down: he’s finished. “You did all that stuff for him, didn’t you?” he says abruptly, before clarifying. “Making the tea, talking to me. Pretending things were fine.”

Junhong freezes. He doesn’t know what Himchan wants to hear. “He advised me to,” he says slowly, “but I did it because I wanted to.” He bites his lip in embarrassment. “I only _kept_ at it for him.”

Himchan nods. He stands up with a quick word of thanks, and leaves the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ermmm i miss b.a.p


End file.
